


what might have been lost

by scriptmanip



Series: Resting on Your Laurels [4]
Category: Skins (UK)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/scriptmanip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a time when her uncertainty felt like bits of glass in your palms, in the soft flesh of your feet. An irritable pain that you felt every time you ran after her, every time you reached out to touch her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what might have been lost

_Solace my game  
Solace my game, it stars you_  

* * *

 

_Emily, ages ago_

It’s the Christmas holiday that does you in. Because up until that point, separation from Naomi had been an uncomfortable adjustment at best and mildly traumatic at worst; but then you spend two, full weeks in each other’s pockets, and in old bedrooms, and in old tee shirts, and in old, comfy nooks like the yellow sofa of Gina’s sitting room. It’s a lovely return to what you’ve spent months missing. And it ruins you completely.

Katie essentially wants nothing to do with you while you’re back home, sickened again by your constant displays of affection, like she hasn’t spent the past couple summers hanging out with you and Naomi nearly _every_ day. But, whatever, it’s one less person contending for your time, and so when she fucks off chasing after the other Uni freshers home on holiday you couldn’t be more pleased.

And your mum’s nearly given up trying to keep you pinned to the house since even when you are around, you’ve got Naomi’s hand linked up with your own and hardly even notice her sidelong glances of disapproval anymore. You get lost in one another – even more so than you always have – and fall into old habits so quickly, it’s as if your time apart had been some horrible figment of your imagination.

So it shouldn’t be a surprise then – though it really, _really_ is – that two weeks into your next term, Naomi pops up on campus just outside the English building without warning. Because you’d always assumed this would happen. That one of you would cave to the exhaustion and depression of maintaining the distance and turn up in the other’s orbit unannounced. But the fact that it’s _her_ , and not you who’s crumbled first, leaves you feeling totally unprepared and off-kilter.  

You and Naomi have lasted just barely three months apart; and, off the look on Katie’s face as you enter your shared flat, you think she’s probably just lost a massive wager with Cook or Effy on how long it would take.

“What the fuck is all this?” Your sister, delightful as ever, greets you as you step inside, pulling Naomi along behind you where your hands are linked. Katie’s accusatory gaze is on the hold-all at Naomi’s feet.

“Naomi’s going to—“ and you trail off, looking back at Naomi just to be sure she’s _actually_ standing there. Just to be sure you haven’t imagined her blue eyes or her nervous smile “—stay with us for a bit.” You smile as the words leave your lips, watch Naomi visibly relax, and then kiss her because – _fuck_. Just because.

“What does that _mean_ exactly? It’s not like we’ve got loads of space for extra shit, Emily,” Katie spits out just before turning on Naomi.  “And anyway, aren’t you, like, enrolled in university or something? In _London_?”

“Fuck off, Katie,” you answer dully, and then you’re on the move again, making a quick get-away to your bedroom with Naomi in tow.

“ _Emily_! Mum and Dad are helping us with this flat.”

“Yeah, and?” you counter without turning to face her.

Katie’s up and following you now – you can hear her quick, angry stomps trailing behind you down the corridor.

“Which means you can’t fucking convert it into some shag palace for you and your girlfriend on a fucking whim just because you’ve got, like, co-dependency issues!”

Katie’s rant continues, but you don’t hear much of it that isn’t muffled by the bedroom door you’ve kicked shut after shoving Naomi – and her massive piece of luggage – into the room.

“ _Emily!_ ” Katie’s reached the screeching stage at this point, which she’s teamed appropriately with loud pounding against your door. “ _God_ , you’re  a fucking, selfish cow sometimes! Open the door!”

“Can’t,” you yell back to her, though you’re smiling at Naomi as you say it and moving towards the zip on her winter coat, “got my hands full at the moment.” The kiss turns into high-pitched squeals when your hands make their way into the coat and under her jumper.

“ _Christ_! Your hands are fucking freezing!” Naomi’s laughing against your mouth, untying the loose knots of your scarf, and kissing you back.

“Fucking hell, it’s been three, bloody years – don’t you two _ever_ tire of taking off each other’s clothes?”

It’s Katie’s last attempt at continuing the argument through a closed door, and her petulant stomping leaving the corridor is the last thing you hear before Naomi  manoeuvres you both back onto your bed.

It’s not really a discussion after that, Naomi’s presence. Or, at least, not one that you’re having with Katie. Or even your parents, for that matter, who are actually just relieved you’re no longer wasting money on train tickets to London every chance you get. There’s a short conversation – of which you hear only one side – between Naomi and Gina one afternoon a few days later.

The chat actually gets a bit more heated than you’d imagined, since Gina is about the most even-keeled human being you’ve ever met. But once Naomi raises a rather solid point about the transient, unsettled lifestyle in which she was brought up, Gina seems to retreat on her insistence that Naomi go back to London and finish out her year. Gina then wishes you both well, and you can only imagine the graphic detail, based off the look of horror on your girlfriend’s face, but she also seems to impart an anecdote about finding love in her own years of early adulthood.

“Christ, she’ll never stop oversharing, will she?” Naomi’s face is crinkled in disgust as she flops back onto your bed, having just ended the call with her mum.

“Likely not,” you smile, watching her from where you’re sat at the cramped desk beside the bed.

She just sighs, runs her hands through her hair and closes her eyes.

“So then … this is actually happening? You being here?” You’ve started picking at your already chipped nail varnish and bite at your bottom lip after you’ve asked. Because the idea of having Naomi all to yourself again still seems like a dream from which you’ll eventually wake.

“It is,” she says slowly, rolling onto her side and resting her head onto her hand. “If you’re okay with it?”

There was a time when her uncertainty felt like bits of glass in your palms, in the soft flesh of your feet. An irritable pain that you felt every time you ran after her, every time you reached out to touch her. But it’s a different kind of hesitation now, and you sort of love her ridiculously for still not knowing how much she’s allowed to smother you – how you’ll let her do it every time.

So you just stand with a smile and take the only step between your desk and bed before placing one knee on either side of her waist on the mattress. You feel her shift beneath you, between your legs, until she’s looking up and smiling. And it’s really the only time – this position – where you can see how it would feel to tower over her.

She reaches up for your hands and twists all your fingers together, bringing them back against the mattress on either side of her head until your weight rests against her palms. “Dunno, Naoms, that would mean I’d have to see you _all_ of the time: sleeping, eating, showering.”

“Showering, hey?” she smirks. “Just what kind of girl do you think I am exactly?”

She’s still grinning right up until you’ve lowered yourself closer, teasing kisses along her neck, and then you hit the spot that makes her fingers flex tighter around your own. At her sharp intake of breath, you know she’s no longer smirking and so you say next to her ear, “The kind of girl who enjoys a fuck in the shower.”

You settle for the bed since it’s more convenient at the moment, and because Katie’s still all sorts of disgusted by the idea of you having sex in the flat _at all_ let alone in a communal space. And basically, once you’ve pressed into Naomi, grinding against her until she pushes moans into your mouth, it’s quick seconds before she’s pulling hurriedly at your clothes.

The sex is so much better than it’s been in months, too. It’s slowed significantly and feels more purposed than ever before. Like you’ve both started taking time to consider every touch and every breath. The quick, urgent shags of your months of long-distance had had their own allure. Crashing together the very instant you were behind closed doors, and not resurfacing for food or drink until absolutely necessary. But you never really adjusted to it – to the feeling that you’d not had enough of her, to survive your time apart. So once you’ve got her around consistently, you take your time. You stop to appreciate all the things surrounding your sex, too: waking beside her, the sound of her laugh, her glazed eyes when she gets too drunk, and her smile just after you kiss.

It goes like this for a bit.

Naomi looks into transferring but isn’t terribly rushed either, so she works at an arts supply shop near the flat to help with rent while you’re on campus. Which keeps Katie quiet [mostly] until, at some point, you think your sister’s realised she even _enjoys_ Naomi being around. No doubt something she’d strongly deny if you were to confront her on it. So you just smile to yourself when they’re both screaming at the television during _X Factor_ , laughing hysterically together, and pretend not to notice.

It’s been an odd dynamic shift in Manchester, where you’ve acquired a nice handful of friends from Uni, and instead it’s Katie [still in her gap year] who trails about with you. And if you spent more time publicly berating her in front of them or begging her to get a life of her own, it’d almost feel like some odd reversal of sixth form all over again. Except you’ve never hated her being around and always felt relieved she didn’t stay behind in Bristol, to wallow in her medical diagnosis. Or worse, go completely off the rails because of it with someone like Effy. When Naomi joins the mix spontaneously, it’s like a perfect extension of that dynamic that already works so well.   

And it’s fucking brilliant. For a bit.

**

The demise of the honeymoon period, as it turns out, is unavoidable. It all happens so abruptly, so unexpectedly, you almost can’t recover for several, long seconds.

“You’re going to be the worst pushover when we have kids,” is what you say to Naomi. She’s just told you to fuck off on your coursework in favour of going out with your mates Chelsea and Anna.

“That’s not very likely,” she responds, distracted by a magazine on her lap.

“No offense,” you say lightly, slipping off the bed and removing your top. “But you’ve just said getting pissed with Chelsea is a better plan than outlining my sixteen-page essay on which my final marks are hinged.” 

“Yes, well, you’re an adult who’s capable of making her own decisions, yeah?” she argues, flipping a page and making a confused face at an advert just before letting the other shoe drop. “And anyway, you know I’ve no interest in having kids.”

You feel like you’ve walked off the edge of a kerb you didn’t know was there; and your entire body, as a result, gets jolted severely, as your joints and muscles account for the sudden change in height. “What?”

“Yeah? These bits,” and then she just circles one finger around the general area, covered now by your light blue bed linens, “will be facilitating exactly _zero_ foetuses.”

“Yeah but—“ you swallow even though your tongue feels a bit like sandpaper. “—that’s just pregnancy, Naomi. I meant having kids in general.”

She half-smiles, half-laughs, finally looking up at you where you’re stock still in your knickers, having forgotten you got up to fetch your towel. “Um, yeah, either way, Em. Are you really surprised that your girlfriend, who grew up with a long, rotating list of various, unwelcomed housemates, _several_ of which came with infants attached to their tits, would then choose to live alone?”

The room spins for a moment, or maybe it’s just your vision, so you close your eyes to right it. But there’s then an uncontrolled anger starting to course through your limbs, which Naomi doesn’t quite hear even when you’ve said, “That’s fucking great, Naomi.”

“Oh come on, you know what I mean. Living alone _with_ _you_ , obviously.”

“But, you know that I – we’ve _talked_ about this.” Even as you hear yourself saying it, you can’t quite remember if it’s true.

“Why are you getting so wound up?” And it’s not meant to be confrontational, or even defensive as it sounds, except that nearly half of what Naomi says sounds like a challenge by way of her natural inflection. And it’s taken you almost four, bloody years to sort out the difference.

“Because it’s fucking – it’s sort of a massive, fucking wrench in the plan, isn’t it?”

She sits up then, tossing aside the magazine, and you know it’s because she’s about to approach you. She’s going to try and soothe you back from this irrational ledge by cupping your elbow or tucking your hair behind your ear. But you can’t even fucking _look_ at her in that moment, so you just turn and head for the door, snatching your towel from the back of a chair on your way out.

“Emily, come on. _Emily_ ,” she urges, but you’ve already left the room and quickly close yourself into the bathroom.

“ _Oi!_ Fucking hell, Campbell – this is not, like, free-expression, let-your-tits-fly-territory here! Are you trying to scar me for life?”

“Emily, for fuck’s sake, open up before Katie gets herself too worked up, yeah?”

You can hear them, through the door, as you turn on the taps and wait for the water to warm. With a heavy sigh, and just before stepping under the spray, you reach over and unlatch the lock. When Naomi steps into the room, it’s just as Katie is throwing a tee shirt towards the door.

Once the door clicks shut behind her, Naomi asks cautiously, “Hey, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you say, and then turn away to pull back on the curtain so that a thin cloud of steam wafts into the cooler half of the room. “Sorry, probably just getting my period or something.” It takes only a few seconds of standing with your eyes closed under the spray for Naomi to join you.

Later that night in bed, when pints of cider and too many fags have calmed you significantly, Naomi’s flopped a leg over your own and keeps one arm resting on your stomach when she asks into the dark of your room, “We’re okay, yeah?”

You tell her what’s true: “Yeah, of course.” Because you believe it.

**

Eventually, you're the one who starts to pull away, and Naomi just sort of adjusts, silently, to the gradual distance. You bury yourself in books and coursework, spend long hours in the library or on campus. She picks up more shifts at the arts shop and attaches herself to new social outlets with her workmates. She’s still the same girl – she’s still absolutely everything you’ve ever wanted – but then there’s this larger part of her you’ve only recently discovered that you can’t forget. And in light of it, she slowly becomes almost unrecognisable.

Things have been lessening between you at this terribly mundane rate for so long, you’re almost surprised that either one of you hasn’t already broached the subject out of sheer boredom. When you ask her again, some months later, if things will ever be different, if you and she can have the family and the settled life you’ve always imagined, she just turns her head slowly to the window and blinks tears from the corners of her eyes.

When it ends, the biggest, fucking shock to everyone [yourself included], is that you’re the one breaking it off. Because you’d always assumed it would be Naomi’s insecurities that would shatter you eventually. Instead, it’s her brutal honesty that you can’t accept.

So you’re a broken, sobbing mess – the pair of you – sat closely on your bed while you finally verbalise what’s been looming for nearly half a year.

“I don’t want to do this,” she’s saying, clutching handfuls of her hair between her fingers. Her elbows rest on her thighs, and she hangs her head between her knees.

“I don’t either,” you answer, because it’s true. It’s _still_ true.

“But you are. _You’re_ the one doing this, Em. This isn’t me – it’s _you_.”

“That’s not fair, Naomi. You know how I feel, and you know what I want.”

She looks at you with something so close to contempt, you nearly vomit onto your duvet. “You’re barely twenty – you’ve no idea what you want.”

“I don’t know everything, okay? But I know this. And,” you wrack a particularly audible sob and then pinch your teeth very hard onto your bottom lip to keep it from happening again, “you want something else.”

She flings her hands onto the bed and raises her voice just enough to make you cringe. “I want _you_. I’m not going to sit here and promise you things that I can’t fucking predict, okay? But, I fucking love you, Emily. Why does that no longer matter?”

If only she’d been unfaithful, you’d not feel so fucking awful for ending what’s been one half of your identity for what feels like most of your life. It’d be easier, you think, if she’d just fucked some bi-curious girl from a club or one of the sexually-fluid bints who frequent the arts shop. But it’s not that black-and-white. And what you’ve been telling yourself for months has finally come to pass. The ending of things with Naomi Campbell was never going to be easy, if at all survivable.

“It’s better if this happens now, isn’t it? Before we’re both—“

“No. Fucking stop it. I’m not going to let you try to find something good from this, Emily.”

You make the mistake of looking over at her, and the hurt and betrayal shadowing her eyes cuts you to the core. So you choke out, “I’m sorry.”

Her face softens, and you want to take it all back. You want to give into her as much as you always have when her voice breaks and she begs, “Don’t fucking do this, Em.”

You can’t answer her, and you can’t keep looking at her either, her face stained with tears that won’t stop. So you lay onto your side and roll over to face the wall, crying shamelessly into your pillow. It’s a minute, maybe two, before she curls behind you and wraps an arm around your waist. You reach for her hand, clutching to her fingers as her wracked sobs shake against your back. When you wake up hours later, she’s gone.

**

“What the fuck is going on with you two?” Katie demands, more than asks, on the Saturday when Naomi’s vacated the flat with her massive bag of clothing and a few, odd boxes.

“We broke up.” You taste acid at the back of your tongue as you say it and flip through another page of your required reading.

It’s a bit horrible, explaining to your sister that you no longer feel Naomi could possibly be your soulmate since she doesn’t foresee starting a family with you. That she’s not said she doesn’t want to be with you, but that she has no interest being with you in the way you’d always imagined. That she’d actually prefer to have you and _only_ you – in French villas or on Grecian beaches – with no chance of dirty nappies or sibling rivalries. It’s a bit horrible, telling Katie how that feels like not wanting you at all.

Katie waits for you to finish with this kind of unreadable expression, and says only, “You’re so, fucking retarded,” before getting up from the sofa and leaving the room.

**

“Come over, _please_ ,” you whimper, pressing a pillow – _her_ pillow – to your chest with your arm wrapped tightly around your knees.

“Ems, I don’t think—“

“ _Please_ ,” you sob, and you can tell she’s out again because you hear the distant sounds of generic pub noise through your mobile.

“Alright,” she soothes, taking a long breath. “Alright, I’ll come round.”

Once Naomi’s in your flat, in your bed, and under your weight, you finally stop crying. You regulate your breathing against the hot skin of her neck and shoulder. The flats of her palms press firm, slow circles on your back over your sleep shirt as you both just lie there, breathing in and out of sync, saying nothing. The repetitive motion of her hands is enough to calm you, but the familiar comfort of it is so excruciating, you nearly start crying again as a result. The sex is different now. It’s still slowed, maybe even slower than before, but there’s another element to it that always leaves you feeling emptier by the time she’s gone.

Afterwards – after the feeling of her heated skin against yours, the sounds of her release, and the inevitable tears – she’ll get up to leave. Naomi never stays, not anymore.

“We have to stop.” It doesn’t matter that she’s still there, you’re saying it mostly to yourself anyway. And the words, once you’ve said them, seem to hang in the stillness of your room.

Naomi’s getting dressed, pulling on the clothes that you discarded the night before that are laden with the stench of cigarettes and cheap beer, while you lie in bed and watch her.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice quiet and removed. She’s doing the buttons on her top, watching as her hands work each one through the fabric without looking up.

“I’ll – I’ll stop asking to see you. It’s not making this any easier, is it?”

She looks at you, slumps onto the bed near your stomach, and shakes her head. It’s still so quiet, you know Katie must not yet be awake. Here, in your room, it’s just the sounds of your steady breathing and the rain hitting your window. It feels like the best kind of morning to stay in bed, fuck off your classes, and keep warm under the blankets with Naomi pressed into you. You almost want to tell her, but you’ve been cruel enough already. And you’ve got to fucking stop.

Eventually, she clears her throat and says, “Chelsea and Anna are giving up their flat.”

You’ve been holed up, ignoring your friends, avoiding social engagements, barely concentrating on anything that isn’t coursework. So it’s no real surprise that your mates are making life changes without your knowledge. “Oh. Why?”

“Doing some work abroad – I thought Katie might have told you.”

Katie’s not said much of anything to you in at least a week, and you still can’t wrap your head around the notion that she might actually be upset with you for ending things with a girl she once openly despised.

“So, where will you go?”

Chelsea and Anna have essentially taken Naomi in, like a stray cat, once she moved out of your flat. And they’ve thus served as a kind of tether, so that although you let her go, Naomi was never completely out-of-reach.

“I don’t know. Nowhere.” And then she shrugs, pulls a loose string from your duvet and wraps it around a finger. “Anywhere.”

“You should – go somewhere, I mean.” It’s this that gets you eye contact. Her expression guts you completely, and you swallow hard to keep from falling apart all over again.

“Tell me to stay, and I’ll stay,” she says, her voice breaking. Her bottom lip trembling so heavily, she traps it between her teeth.

All you’ve got to do is rock forward from where you’re sat to feel her lips against yours, to feel her hair between your fingers. Naomi holds to your shirt like it will keep you both in place while you pull her closer against your mouth with the force of your hands. She’s crying again, you know it from the feel of her lips light tremor against your own.

When you sit back, letting your hands fall to the duvet, you look at her through blurry eyes and tell her, “You should go.”

**

_Naomi, presently_

At an airport bar near your gate – because thanks to Effy and an unexpected brush with several facets of your past, you've managed to brutally fuck your liver during the past several weeks, and why stop now – you've finished half a bloody mary and feel a bit itchy for a smoke. But you've not even brought fags with you [having left your partial pack with Effy the previous evening], determined to give them up entirely once you get home. So you just swirl the straw around the glass and watch the bits of pepper get pulled under the surface, lost in thick tomato juice.

Despite your best efforts, you're still drawn to the throngs of passengers walking by, trying to catch a familiar face or a shock of red. But then you remember, that's not even accurate because – like so many other things – she's gotten rid of that too. It's this thought that makes you stop looking, admitting with some reluctance that you've been hoping to see her at all. Because you've never known – not once, not  _ever_  – of someone who’s played part in grand gestures like last-minute proclamations of undying love at busy airport queues. It's the nonsense of romantic comedies – where the bloke turns up at the last second to profess his undying love, which then elicits rounds of applause from fellow passengers and heartfelt tears from the bloody flight crews.

And, actually you're sort of angry you've considered, even if only briefly, that anything of the sort could happen in your real life. It was always Emily who forced you into watching that fucking rubbish in the first place. So it’s almost a relief then, realising that your fleeting expectations for such grand gestures are actually _her_ fault. On top of everything else you’ve already decided to blame her for, you now add this to the list as well.

You're not sure  _how_  it's Emily’s fault for being in that coffee shop that day. You just know that it is.

If you’re being honest, something tells you it was always going to go this way. It could have been Greece or Spain or fucking Iceland, and you’d have found each other in a similarly spontaneous way. You'd have done exactly the same things. You’d have given into the parts of yourself that will somehow always be tied to her. Something tells you that there was never any chance of avoiding this encounter, and it was only a matter of time.

You swallow back another mouthful , the vodka a more prominent flavour at this point, since the ice has melted and watered the tomato juice. The barkeep does this kind of lazy hand signal, and you check the time on your mobile before nodding for another.  _Fuck it_ , you think, you'll sober up properly when you're back on American soil. When you've put a generous berth the size of the Atlantic between you and Emily.

You’ve not spoken since the night previous – since your rushed goodbye beside a taxi rank. And you’ve no intention to maintain contact. You won't text her. You won't call her. You won't continue to infringe on the life she's made without you, or allow her to do the same to you. You'll keep hold of the memories – just the bits of her you've thought belonged to you all along – and nothing more.

It's a brilliant plan.

**

A week after your trip, you've stopped cringing at the harsh accents heard all about you, and nearly forget just how lovely the lilt of the English dialect can be. You've also remembered your daily routine and how, once reintroduced, it calms and regulates the nerves that had been so frayed in London.

There's a rhythm to New York that's always drawn you in – a thrumming, busy pulse that keeps an overwhelming loneliness at bay. Still, it allows you some sense of detachment – something you've craved since first arriving all those years ago.

The pace at work picks up noticeably, and you dive into it, loving the ways it distracts from everything else. Loving the long days and sometimes long nights. Loving that it’s got nothing to do with London, or children, or travel, or redheads-gone-brunette with sad, lovely eyes.  

You go out for drinks one night with your boss, Richard, when he forbids you to log any more hours on your countless projects, and says with a cheerful clap on your back, _‘Fucking take a load off already.’_ It's a narrow space, this bar, in the way that so many of New York’s buildings were never constructed to sufficiently manage so many, fucking people. Everything's just crammed into tiny spaces:  tables, chairs, staff, patrons. No one seems to mind, really. No one stops to notice just how little room there is to move about in this bar but also in the entire city, making it that much easier to disappear into the mass.

Richard tries it on with the girl behind the bar – the way he always does when you're at this spot and he’s had a few – but it's a good distraction for him because you've been total shit at making conversation for most of the evening.

When he asks on your trip, if you’d seen any old friends or visited your old haunts, your face no doubt blanches horribly. And had you not been sat in a poorly lit pub with eighty other people he might have even noticed.

Instead, you just say, “Yeah, sort of.”

Richard’s always been extremely self-involved, and doesn’t push it further. You’ve never been more grateful.

In another two weeks September is gone and with it October ushers in cooler weather. You hide out in Prospect Park on Saturdays, avoid going into Manhattan like it's plagued, and feel yourself taking deep, cleansing breaths while drinking coffee on the sloped greens in front of the picnic house.

You've not heard from her, and you don't really know what to make of it. Because to say you're disappointed would be an understatement, but there's also a relief in the silence. You spend less time worrying over her, feeling confident that Katie – fucking Zen now or not – wouldn't dare leave Emily's side if she thought Rose might pose a greater threat. And you think maybe Emily's decided to do you the same courtesy – to let things lie. To allow things to return to normal at a natural rate.

Of course, returning to some level of normalcy is no easy feat, and by the end of October you've still not been able to delete any of her texts – and it's not like you can actually  _hear_ her voice or anything on them – but, in particular, you cling to her voicemails. You can’t delete them, but you've stopped accessing them daily and instead only listen to them if you've had too much wine. In any case, it's a slow return and will probably not ever feel entirely  _normal._ But you don't get to pity your misfortunes when you're at least partially responsible for having ended up like this. Though, it's still sad to think of it this way: as an ending.

**

You don't get much post that isn't bills or adverts so when you open the box at the entry of your flat, you half-expect to see someone else's name on what looks like an envelope that might contain legal documents. It’s bitterly cold outside, the first properly cold day of the upcoming season, and your fingers are still a bit numb from not having remembered to wear gloves. So, of course, you fully drop the envelope, along with the rest of the post that actually is bills, upon seeing the handwriting.

Some guy carting a bicycle through the entryway, who's name escapes you because in your head you've always just called him _'the sweaty cycler'_ for obvious reasons, stops to try and help you with it. And you briefly wonder if he's noticed the tremor in your hand as you take it from him and manage to say, "Thanks."

You don't open it for three days.

On the fourth day, after two cigarettes smoked in quick succession [from a pack you’d broken down and bought on day two], and a text from Effy that says only, ‘ _quit being a fanny and open it_ ,’ you sit down at your small dining table and break open the seal.

When your eyes settle on the first page, your hands perspire immediately as you first squeeze them into fists then relax them, again and again. You light another fag.

* * *

_An Exercise in Letting Go_  
by Emily Fitch

In the womb, my sister once reached out and grabbed hold of my foot. And even though there’s not photographic evidence, like one of those grainy, image printouts for twin A and twin B, my mum swears on it because she’d seen it on the screen during an ultrasound. Though, truthfully, the doctor had to point it out to her – Katie’s hand on my foot – because the imaging on those machines are such shit we looked more like grey, lumpy brain matter than actual foetuses. Dad confessed to that last bit, and he’s always had a more honest face than Mum, so I’m inclined to believe him. 

Still, assuming she did take my foot in her hand all those years back, when we were still growing lung tissue and eyelashes, I’ve since had someone holding some part of me for my entire, fucking life. And I always thought it should feel more comforting, that.

Instead it’s likely ruined me entirely, because I’ve always been pretty shit at learning to let go.

This girl, who I know nothing of, other than that she’s beautiful – and I’ve never really thought of girls as being beautiful, not quite like this – is so rude and abrasive to everyone in our year, I immediately decide she’s the bravest person I’ve ever known. Except I don’t know her, not at all. And I don’t know why I can’t think the same of my sister, who is equally if not more outspoken for being barely thirteen, except that Katie’s not very tall. While this girl is quite tall actually, like the boys. And, yeah, that must be it. Brave _and_ tall.

During an outdoor science project, on the extremely limited school grounds where we’re meant to be collecting and identifying different types of foliage, this girl just grabs my hand and hauls me off towards a gathering of flowering shrubbery.

 _‘Come on,’_ she says, _‘I don’t want to be left to pair off with one of those tossers.’_

And I think she must mean the boys because I’ve always thought them to be tossers too, and maybe I’ve been right all along.

 _‘Anyway it’s sort of pathetic, you always following her around, Emily,’_ she says, kind of cruelly nodding towards my sister.

I’m then having a horrible time trying to remember which species we’re looking at – these squat shrubs with tiny purple flowers – since she’s said my name, which I didn’t even think she knew. And since she’s taken hold of my hand and hasn’t let go.

I lose my virginity in a sort of backwards fashion – first with this girl, and then with a boy. And it’s all pretty awkward and rubbish – the second time, with the boy who stutters and wears braces – but I never really expected much anyway since I’d already nailed a girl and found it to be rather, fucking brilliant. But as I’m lying there, feeling a bit uncomfortable having just shagged my mate, who I don’t even fancy, he just finds my wrist, under the sheet, and wraps his hand around it. We don’t fuck aside from this one instance, but I have a hard time not ascribing significance to it – to this moment where he takes hold of me without ever saying a word. Because I’d been flailing about in every other facet – at home, in my head, with my family, with this girl – feeling like my insides might explode from so much frenetic exertion. But there’s a simplicity here, an innocence to how things ended up with this boy, who just reaches out and holds me in place for a bit.

My sister stops holding onto me eventually, but I’m so distracted by the sudden, tenuous grasp of this girl, that I hardly notice until Katie’s gone. Until it’s years later, and she writes me letters from countries I can hardly pronounce and sounds less and less like the sister I used to know, who once taught me that a spoonful of peanut butter will mask the smell of vodka on your breath.

When I wake after sleeping with this girl – and there’s only ever been one that really matters – for the fifteenth time, I register two things simultaneously, and take a deliberated second to sort which is the most significant.

That I’ve kept count, like there’s an underlying importance in the actual number of times we’ve fucked.

Or, that she’s wrapped herself around me at some point during the night, and for the first time ever, hasn’t let go.

I’m always pulling from her the things she’s not ready to give – even from the very beginning. Even from before the beginning.  Because I’ve always seen her hesitancy as a weakness, and I don’t want her to be fragile.

I want her to be braver than that.

I want her to be the girl who stood tall and spoke with confidence when puberty hit – when almost no one had any self-assurance. Least of all me.

I want her to be herself.

I want her to be less scared of something I know can be good.

I want. I want. I want.

I make demands of her, of us, and the cards nearly always fall in my favour. So I shouldn’t be surprised then, that when I tell her to leave me, she does.

This is how I’ll learn to let go. By forcing her to let go first.

She’s always been more clever at things, and even this – this thing she fought against and didn’t want at all – is something at which she excels. Because she doesn’t just leave, she disappears entirely. I suppose I’m meant to feel freer and lighter, like a balloon that’s been tugged along by its string until it slips from the hand that holds it and floats away. Because no one is holding me anymore. But it’s unsettling, this freedom, this feeling that comes from being untethered. I can’t imagine it will ever feel right. And maybe it’s not meant to, like the lingering reminder of a decision I got wrong.

Or maybe, it’s just that letting go never comes easy, and I’ve not yet learned how.

* * *

The cigarette you’d lit has gone untouched and is now just a pinched filter between your fingers and a long, precarious dangle of ash extending over the tray. Upon noticing, you slowly drop it into the tray and swallow, leaning back into your chair as Emily’s essay falls back onto the table. You run a quick hand through your hair and look out the window to your right. The rain pelting against it is threatening to freeze and turn to snow. You’re entranced by the weather for several more minutes, drifting back-and-forth between the present and recalled moments of your past.

When you look back to the paper, creased in places, smudged in others, and torn on one corner where you imagine it’s been sloppily kept in an old folder for years, a breath escapes you as your eyes fall closed. Your head tipped back against the chair, you say to your empty flat, “What the fuck, Emily.”

**

Effy’s flight is due to land in seven minutes, and you’re still in the back of a cab, stuck on Atlantic because it’s Friday night and traffic is shit and also you may have possibly waited too long to call for a car. Either way, you’re anxious about making her wait because she’s already voiced her opinion [on more than one occasion] on your _‘Americanised punctuality.’_ So before the car’s even come to a full stop in front of the passenger arrivals’ area, you’re pulling out your mobile to ring her even as you throw your card to the driver and tell him to keep the meter running.

Any time that Effy’s visited – and it’s only been a handful of times – you’ve always met her near a cement piling just outside the exits for international arrivals. The squat, cement structure is stamped with one of those standard ‘no-smoking’ symbols, and Effy’s always found a sick humour in lighting up her first, post-flight fag beside it.

You’ve got your mobile pressed to your ear, listening to the ring through the line, while watching your breath in quick, frozen puffs dissipate in front of you as you walk briskly towards the meeting spot. The first week in December brought with it a light dusting of snow, which then turned to a grey and slushy mess almost immediately. And the temperature has dropped significantly in recent weeks, so you’re a bit, fucking freezing through the toes of your boots as you hurry along. Your third call to Effy – because you’ve already tried twice to reach her during the cab ride there – goes to voicemail, even though she’s no doubt been deplaned for close to twenty minutes and probably on at least her second fag by now.

“I’m late – _fuck_ , I know I’m late,” you’re saying, hurrying along even as your jaw chatters from the cold. “But, fucking _pick up_ already.”

As you’re ending the call, you start to look about for her – that tall, seductively disinterested brunette who’ll be leant up against something, attracting attention by doing literally nothing at all. You feel a bit panicked, and it’s probably just the chill on your skin coupled with your tardy arrival, but it ceases to matter once you’ve spotted her.

 _Her_ being not so much Effy, as Emily.

She speaks first, which is convenient since you’ve currently lost all verbal capabilities. “Um, hi,” Emily says, clutching a small bag in front of her knees with both hands.

She looks sort of miserable, like she’s turned up at a party only to find out she’s not on the guest list and has been left to stand outside in the cold.

Once you’re stood in front of her, she doesn’t look miserable so much as extremely uncomfortable. Beautiful, with her reddened cheeks and nose, a light gloss to her lips, but uncomfortable nonetheless. “Um, yeah. Hi. What the hell is going on exactly?” you ask through a light, nervous laugh.

You’re still looking around for Effy, even though a suspicion has started to churn in your gut. And Emily just shifts from one foot to the other and says, “Actually—“

“Look,” you then cut in, “I don’t suppose you’ve got Effy hid in your luggage?” Emily just bites at her lip and slowly shakes her head. “Right.” Exhaling through your nose, you look to your right and scoff, “Suddenly I feel like I’m in the middle of a fucking bit on the _Graham Norton Show_.”

“I’m sorry, this wasn’t really—“ Emily struggles, pulling at her scarf to tighten it around her neck.

“I don’t mean to be a prick,” you say, casting a nervous look over your shoulder, then looking back to her. “But, I’ve got a car waiting, actually.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m just guessing this could turn into a rather lengthy explanation. Plus I’m freezing my tits off after, like, three minutes so you must be a block of ice.”

Emily laughs, and you warm significantly from beneath your fuzzy hat and cowl.

“I am, actually, yeah,” she chatters with small twitches of her chin.  

From the back seat of the cab, you give the driver your address and then settle back into the seat with your hands clamped tightly together between your knees.

“So,” she says, mostly speaking to the back of the seat in front of her, “this wasn’t exactly my idea.”

“Oh?” you answer, feigning  as much disinterest as seems humanly possible.

Before Emily can respond, your mobile goes, chiming from somewhere inside your bulky, winter coat. The text from Effy only reinforces your urge to throttle her within an inch of her life. Because you imagine she’s having a good laugh at your expense – probably had to work hard at typing out the text for how much you imagine her cackling. Your fingers shake so fiercely from the thought, you don’t even attempt a reply to her ‘ _Has my package arrived safely?’ a_ nd instead thrust your phone angrily back inside your pocket.

“Katie and Effy then,” you say with a resigned sigh, eyeing Emily with a sideways glance, and she nods slowly in response. “Put a gun to your head, did they?”

When you look over to her fully, she seems to have relaxed by a fraction since you’re at least taking this all in stride. And anyway, your sarcasm has always had an oddly calming effect on Emily.

“Something like that,” she smiles, taking a deep breath.

“Christ.” You look to the front of the cab, through the windscreen, and it’s nothing but flickering brake lights and traffic signals. “You’re really here.”

“Yeah. I really am.”

You look back at her then, like something’s just clicked into place, wearing an expression crossed somewhere between confusion and agitation. “And, _how_ are you here exactly? I’m sorry, it’s just – you can’t possibly be _here_. You can’t possibly have come to New York, Emily, not considering that when I left—“

“I—“ Emily starts before pinching her lips together just as you hold your breath. “—sorry, but can we talk about this back at yours?”

If she weren’t so fucking gifted at pleading with her eyes, ripping apart your resolve with one, sodding look, you’d probably be more likely to say no. You’d demand to hear the whole, fucking story, actually,  right in the back of the taxi.

Instead, you swallow hard and roll your eyes because it’s what’s always saved you in the past: a façade of indifference. “Yeah, sure. Fine.”

The cab then falls silent, until the driver begins speaking a quiet, foreign language into his bluetooth.

**

Once back in your flat, the only thought running through your head is that _Emily_ , more importantly, is in your flat. And you both just stand awkwardly in the cramped room that functions as both your sitting room and dining area. She’s looking around, taking in this space that’s yours, sweeping her eyes over everything. And you’ve never before felt so exposed by simple things like paint colours and framed prints. You don’t bring up the essay, even though it’s laid out in plain sight on the table where it’s been for weeks. Even though just the image of it in your peripheral is making you perspire.

“It’s really nice,” Emily says.

“Thanks – sort of small, I guess,” you say, and looking around you wonder if the walls are actually closing in or if it’s just the onset of claustrophobia.

Emily just nods and looks anywhere, literally _anywhere_ , but in your direction. It goes quiet for the next several seconds, and you can’t think of an easy way to do this so you just swallow back as much anxiety as you can and grab at the lining of your coat pockets.

“Emily,” you sigh, and it’s the only thing you can think to say, her name, because the idea that she’s actually stood in your flat is still making you feel a bit nauseous.

Emily then shrugs, in this sort of helpless way of hers, and drops her bag to her feet before saying, “I left Rose.”

The room spins momentarily but you manage to say, “What?” without tipping over. “When?”

She smiles nervously, bites at the inside of her lip. “Not like, just now or anything.”

“Jesus. Emily, I’m so sorry – I,” you’re shaking your head, placing a hand to your forehead, and lowering yourself onto the sofa. “What about – what about Lewis?”

“Oh, well, it’s yet to be worked out, legally and everything, but he’s fine," she sort of stammers. "We’re fine. Katie’s, um, staying with us for a bit, which is good. She’s such a natural with him, honestly.” She keeps adjusting her weight from one foot to the other, making small, nervous movements with her hands.

“Do you want to,” your right hand gestures lamely towards the sofa, and Emily just says _‘thanks’_ very softly before walking over and joining you.

“It’s not why I came here,” she says, staring at her hands clasped on her knees. “I mean it is, sort of, but—“ she stumbles, exhaling when she can’t seem to find the right words.

“I don’t understand. When I last saw you, you said you wanted to stay. With her. That you still loved her.”

She unclasps her hands, rests them on her kneecaps, and then folds them again. “Yeah, I know.”

“What happened?” Before Emily can answer, your mind leaps to the worst possible scenario, and with your pulse racing you start to ask, “She didn’t—“

“No, _no_.” Emily looks over to you, shaking her head. “Rose has been incredibly stable, actively communicating with her doctors, and she’s been – she’s been fine.” Her eyes fall again to her lap. “I do still love her. Or well, a part of me does. And I wanted to stay with her because what we had,” she shakes her head again and briefly closes her eyes. “I worked so hard for it. And, I didn’t want it to be over.”

“But,” you pinch your lips together before cautiously proceeding, “you left her. Why?”

Emily smiles and then nearly laughs, quietly and to herself, and you suddenly feel incredibly self-conscious in your own flat. When she looks up again, her eyes have warmed, the anxiousness gone from her face, and you have to swallow past a lump in your throat to maintain eye contact.

“There’s a lot of things you should know,” she tells you. And then after a quick glance towards the ceiling, “I mean, there’s a lot I _need_ you to know.”

“Oh,” you answer quickly, looking back to your own hands, to the stains on your coffee table, to the water spots on the toe of your boot.

“And I want to tell you about all of it. But, do you think we could – shit, I don’t even know what time it is, but I’m fucking _starving_.”

You look back at her for a quick second before laughter starts spilling out, uncontrolled. Emily joins in shortly after, and for a moment, nothing else matters except the sound of it filling your flat.

**

You order Chinese, and Emily watches you pace the room while on the phone, like she wants to comment on how you’ve requested extra hot mustard without her even asking for it, but instead she just smiles when your cheeks flush. Once the food arrives, you turn on the television, and it’s slightly less-awkward to eat while zoning out to syndicated programming like _‘Friends,’_ which you’ve always hated but Emily’s committed to memory. You sit on the sofa, your legs criss-crossed and a carton of bean curd and broccoli in your lap. Emily’s always preferred eating take-away on the floor. So she’s sat at your coffee table with a fork and plate and napkin, like she can still be civilised even if it’s Szechwan chicken at 11:30 at night. And you wonder – with your chopsticks paused partway to your mouth – if the habit is still remnants of Jenna’s unwavering etiquette, or if Emily’s just always known she’s a clumsy eater.

When it seems you’ve both stopped eating for the most part, you stand to take the rest of your food into the kitchen and reach down for Emily’s plate.

“Thanks,” she says, handing it to you and wiping her mouth again with her napkin.

“Sure.” A creeping anxiety starts to prickle the back of your neck again when Emily’s sat there on your floor, and looking up at you with wide, hopeful eyes and a grateful smile. So you turn and walk away before doing anything careless like dropping the plate or telling her how glad you are she’s back within arm’s reach.

In the kitchen, while stood at the sink and rinsing wide swipes of mustard off her plate, you think about asking Emily to explain a few things. In your head, while warm water and soapy bubbles cover your hands, you try to imagine what that conversation looks like. You wonder if it’s not too late, and if it wouldn’t be the more hospitable thing to broach the topics in the morning over coffee. You’re still trying to decide what to do, how to navigate this situation that you never in your life could have planned for, when you turn back towards the sitting room to see her stood in the doorway.  There’s so much you’ve forgotten about Emily. So many of her intricacies that have lapsed from your memory from so much time apart. But when she’s there in front of you, it’s so easy to remember how that’s all it’s ever taken – finding yourself standing face-to-face with her – to disable you completely. Because although you’ve opened your mouth to speak, nothing comes out, and so you close it again a moment later and cling to the towel in your hands.

“I was just going to see about washing up. I didn’t, um, I mean I don’t have a bath towel with me.”

She’s so tentative, hovering there around the entrance of your kitchen and pulling at the hem of her shirt sleeve. It makes her look years younger, and your lungs constrict without warning when you remember a kiss you’d once agreed to a thousand years ago at some stupid pyjama party when Emily looked similarly hesitant. At the thought of it, your hands grip more tightly to the dish towel.

“Yeah, of course,” you manage, after clearing your throat. “I’ll just, um, fetch you a towel.”

While Emily showers, you pace your flat and send roughly sixteen texts to Effy, who you’ll have to deal with later when you’re not housing the ex-love-of-your-life. But berating Effy – even via text – is a good distraction to the sounds of running water that only lead to extremely dangerous places, like images of Emily _naked_. You’ve already changed into your most conservative pair of pyjamas – long, cotton pants and a baggy alumni sweatshirt from NYU – and pulled back your hair into a loose ponytail when you hear the bathroom door.

It’s completely useless, of course, that you’ve even _attempted_ to brace yourself to see her again, and particularly, freshly showered. Because when Emily appears at the doorway, all the air in the room disappears into a vacuum. And you’ve got to work at remembering how to breathe while looking up at her from where you’re sat on the sofa. She’s wearing pants similar to your own and an old, grey tee shirt you wish you didn’t remember, small, dark spots forming on its fabric near her shoulders from her freshly-combed, wet hair.

“Sorry if that took ages. The hot water felt so good I didn’t want to get out,” she says. And then smiles the way Emily _always_ smiles, as if she hasn’t just said the most seductive thing simply by way of her soft, low rasp.

“Right,” you say with a few purposed blinks and then clear your throat, standing from the sofa. “I mean, you didn’t take long at all.” When Emily continues to linger near the corridor, you tell her, “So, I’m just going to wash up, but there’s fresh linens on the bed so you feel free to go ahead and lie down, if you like." Her eyes widen just a fraction, so you're quick to add, "I’m going to take the sofa since it’s kind of rubbish.”

“No, I’m not going to take your own bed from you, Naomi,” she argues, crossing her arms. “I feel bad enough having hijacked your weekend with Effy. And anyway your couch seems fine.”

“Believe me, it’s not. Anyway you’ve just travelled on some horribly long flight, so I’m not letting you take the sofa,” you say, definitively crossing your own arms and taking a step towards her.

She smiles at that. “Not _letting_ me?”

You shrug, finding an old, familiar smirk and feel yourself fall into an equally familiar banter. “Yeah, I’m quite taller which obviously means I’m much bossier as well.”

Emily looks to her left and when she laughs, it echoes down the corridor. But then, she’s always been defiant in an entirely different sense, and you can see it – the way it glints dangerously behind her eyes – when she looks back at you with an eyebrow arched. “I think you and I both know that your _height_ has never paid you any particular advantage.”

One step. Just one step is all it takes and you’re suddenly stood far too close, encroaching on her until Emily’s forced to step back, placing one hand behind her to find the doorframe.

You’re still feeling a bit arrogant, even stood so closely, enough to challenge, “You sure about that?”

And Emily’s expression, from where you’re now looking down on her, is almost unreadable. The way her smile just keeps ghosting, slipping away, then reappearing, each time more uncertain than the previous.

Quietly, she says, “I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

And your eyes just fall closed at the soft sounds of her voice. So that you first _feel_ her hands on your hips before looking down to see them there.

“Emily.” You again close your eyes, even as your hands, like magnets, move to hold her face. Her skin is so warm, still retaining heat from the shower, you think, and your forehead tips slightly to rest against hers. “If I kiss you, I’m not going to be able to stop.”

And she just breathes out, like relief, “Promise?”

It opens the floodgates. And the first bit of contact is so incredibly open and raw, you almost fall into her for a loss of equilibrium. Emily whimpers when your tongues first brush together, and your fingers tense against the back of her head, tangle further into her damp hair. She pulls at the bulk of your sweatshirt until you actually do fall forward, pinning her against the doorframe at her back.

" _Christ_ , I've fucking missed this," you say, breathing heavy against her mouth.

She kisses you again. Longer, harder, urgent for more of you. And you've not ever been able to deny her much of anything, not really. And especially not now. Especially not  _this_. So you step back, bringing her with you down the corridor. And she follows you, blindly pulling at the bottom of your sweatshirt until it's up and over your head, flung onto the floor along the wall just as Emily pushes you into your room. You swallow hard at the way she's taking you in – her eyes fixed on where your nipples have hardened through your thin vest top as she quickly moistens her lips and looks up to you.

Her breathing already a bit laboured, she just says, "Fuck."

"What – what is it?" You freeze where you’re stood, a slight panic pulsing in your chest.

But Emily shakes her head, takes a step closer. "You're just – _fuck_ , you're gorgeous, do you know that?"

She takes one more step towards you, closing the gap, and then grabs fistfuls of your vest top to pull you closer. And then your hands move to retrace her like every touch is a memory that needed only the slightest prompting to be recalled. Because the skin of her stomach, you remember this. The muscles of her back, flexing beneath your fingers, you remember this. Everything goes a bit frantic as you move onto the bed, Emily pulling off her shirt and then yours. You can’t even begin to anticipate the feeling of her skin against yours before she’s pressed to you. It’s almost reminiscent of that first time, the way Emily takes control of everything. And the way you let her. But she’s far less confident than you remember, and the movement of her hands feel uncertain as they skate along your sides. When her breaths along your chest and neck are audibly shaky, you reach out for her hands and thread your fingers between hers.

“Hey, hey.” You wait for her to pause, to look back at you from where she’s sat straddling your lap. “Are you alright?”

Emily nods, not at all convincingly. And you smile, like you’ve not smiled in years.

“We can just … take it slow, okay?”

She takes a deep breath and seems more relaxed when she smiles and says, “Easier said than done.”

But it does slow. And it’s so lovely, the way you move together – still so synced, even after so much time, even during the awkward moments. A sharp emotion tightens in your throat when you realise just how lonely you’ve been without realising it. Without _her_. Your grip tightens on her shoulders, and Emily responds by kissing you so sweetly, you have to work hard to keep from crying. It doesn’t seem right, to ruin this moment with tears. Emily slides off you then, just slightly, to lie at your side, moving one hand between your breasts and onto your stomach, which then flutters at the contact.

“Is this okay?” she asks, her fingers teasing near the elastic of your pyjama bottoms.

You don’t answer her because you’re still not confident about the possible waver of your voice, and instead reach for her hand, guiding it down until she’s touching you. And you clench shut your eyes when she gasps and begins to move her fingers. Any tearful emotion is gone entirely then, replaced by an urge so desperate, you’re almost embarrassingly close to climax extremely fast. Your grasp clumsily at your pyjamas, working them down around your ankles before kicking them off entirely so that Emily can move more freely against you. She knows exactly what to do, how to touch you, when to kiss you.

She also knows that saying, low and desperate against your ear, “God, you feel so fucking good,” will be what tips you over the edge. And so you come, gripped tightly to her arm that’s still flexed in movement, and buried close to her neck and shoulder.

You can’t lie still for long, quickly moving to discard Emily’s clothes, because there’s so much more of her you need to be touching. And she just lays back against the mattress, watching as you remove her pants and knickers in one go. She opens her legs while you’re still on your knees, hovering above her, and you pause to look at her – _all_ of her – before lying between them, covering the length of her body with your own. You kiss her while moving slowly up and back, pressing yourself against her in a steady rhythm as she wraps her arms and legs around you, whimpering into every kiss.

Emily starts to thrust with a bit more urgency and then bites down, tugging on your bottom lip. It’s all the encouragement you need. You don’t even pause at her neck, a favourite erogenous spot you’ve missed terribly; or her breasts, even though they’re perfectly raised in these enticing peaks. Because you can’t be slowed or distracted by much of anything that doesn’t involve your mouth between her legs.

“Oh fuck, Naomi. _Fuck_ ,” she strains to say once you’ve touched her, tasted her.

You look up just once to see her head craned back into the pillow, her eyes clenched tight and hands tugging at the duvet. It’s far too distracting. It’s far too reminiscent. It’s far too much to both watch her and taste her, and so you settle for closing your eyes, retracing these parts of her as well. You want her all at once – pulling her closer with your hands wrapped around her thighs – and you want it to last for hours, your tongue not really able to decide on one, steady rhythm. But your indecision doesn’t seem to matter since Emily’s breathing and groaning is indicative that she’s close to coming regardless of your erratic movements. And then she does, just cries out with one hand in your hair, the other grabbing at your duvet. When you open your eyes, you see her, panting and gradually relaxing. You feel her, wet and pulsing.

With the back of your hand, you swipe along your chin where it’s sticky and wet, once you’ve crawled back up the bed to lie beside her. Emily rolls over to face you, flushed and smiling, and reaches out with her thumb to wipe the moisture from your top lip.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” you say, your breathing finally back to normal. “I never thought I’d get to—“ and then you stop, clamp your mouth shut, and feel yourself smile.

But Emily is grinning too and just says, “Yeah, I know. Me neither.”

Her eyelids begin to blink slowly, after a few minutes of silence, like she could fall asleep at any moment. And there’s so much to say – so much that hasn’t been asked or explained. But it’s hardly the time. Not with everything that’s just happened. Not with Emily, curled around your favourite pillow, looking as lovely as you’ve ever seen her. You don’t want anything to tarnish this moment. Even the truth, whatever it is.

So you just pull back the linens and crawl beneath them. Lifting your arm and holding back the blankets for her, you say, “Come here.”

Without hesitation, Emily curls into you, tucking one arm like a tiny wing between you and wrapping the other around your back. Her fingers find a pattern along your shoulder blades, and you pull her in close, rest your chin atop her head.

And then quietly, sleepily, you hear her say close to your chest, “I’ve missed this too.”


End file.
